Sometimes, still, Carl will look at Negan and wonder why he didn’t kill him when he had the chance, when they were at Alexandria for the first time in two months and his dad, everyone, had ambushed the trucks, held their guns to Negan’s head and told Carl to bash his brains in with Lucille. It isn’t as if he’s never killed before—hell, he killed his own mom, and for all his shit-talking Negan’s right, you don’t come back from that. Three years on Carl still wakes up sometimes sweating feeling like her hand is on his wrist, like she’s staring at him from a pool of blood, her stomach slashed open in ribbons. His mom hadn’t exactly been there for him but he still misses her in a gaping aching sort of way, like a gunshot wound, when he allows himself to think of her at all.
But he hadn’t killed Negan. He hadn’t even tried. Lucille in his hand and everyone, his dad, Michonne, Daryl—even some of the Saviors, though Carl’s sure they’ve been taken care of since—screaming at him to do it and he’d looked down at Negan, at that face he knew he was supposed to loathe with his entire being, and it was like he couldn’t even breathe. The sun shining on the back of his neck and the rest of Alexandria surrounding them, closing in, first time he’d seen the place in eight full weeks and it hadn’t even felt like home anymore.
He killed Glenn, the logical half of Carl’s brain yells at him. And Abraham might’ve been a dick but he didn’t deserve going down like that.
He killed Glenn and Maggie would kill you if she knew.
But Maggie’s not here. Maggie’s at Hilltop. Carl’s at the Sanctuary. And Negan’s alive, and try as he might, Carl can’t bring himself to regret that. Not yet.
Well, at least not most of the time.